 Telling your children when you have been diagnosed with Breast Cancer
When I was diagnosed in 1993, I was confronted by a vast array of problems and issues, including what and how I was to tell my children and my parents.
My husband and I had always tried to be honest and open with the children, but I was desperate to shield them from the drama of cancer and all its connotations. In retrospect, I was also feeling very guilty, because I was aware that my diagnosis, at 40, meant that there would be ramifications for my daughter when she was older. I felt as if I was already bringing a shadow into her bright life. I suppose we all want our children's lives to be perfect for them.
I see now that I was terrified of the word "cancer", and I wanted to shield my children from this terror.
There was a week between the confirmation of my diagnosis and my surgery, and a few days before that when I'd found the lump and had it investigated. The children must have seen me upset, but at first we told them that I just wasn't feeling well. As the time approached, I explained that I had a funny lump in my breast and that the doctor would take it out in hospital. They were both keen to have a feel. I can remember them rubbing my breast, saying "Oh, yeah" and running off to play.
They came into hospital with me when l was admitted. I wanted to somehow involve them so that they would understand why I was not going to be at home for a while, but I was still keen not to worry them unduly.
On that first night in hospital, the eve of my operation, after the family left, I read through some pamphlets and books I had found on the subject. Every one said how important it was to tell your children that you had cancer and to actually say the word. The overriding belief was that children need to be included in important issues, not left out.
After discussing this more, my husband and I realised how important this was.
We didn't want to frighten them with the word "cancer", but we thought that if they heard the word whispered between other family members or friends, they would be even more terrified. We were aware that the only other person with cancer they would have known was the father of a little school friend, and that this man had died.
Nevertheless, we sat them down on my hospital bed a day or two later, and with a heavy heart I said: "You know the lump that mummy had in her breast; well, it was cancer." They both looked at me with wide eyes and James, at six, said, "Are you going to die?" Three years later as l write this I have tears in my eyes. I can still see those little worried faces so clearly! We explained to them that we are all going to die some time, but that the doctor had taken out the lump and that he thought I would not be dying for a long time.
At that stage my husband and I knew that I would be having further treatment, at least radiotherapy, and so I started to tell them that I would really need their help over the next few weeks. That they could help me by making their beds, tidying their rooms, not fighting with each other, etc. At that point they lost interest in the conversation very quickly and asked if they could turn the television on! The moment, pregnant with emotion and tension was instantly diffused and we felt terrifically relieved.
From that time on we felt free to talk about cancer whenever it came up in the conversation:It was no big deal. Whenever it seemed appropriate, I took the children along to the hospital to show them the chemotherapy and radiotherapy rooms. I found that once the taboo and mystique had gone from the topic, the children were interested to see where I disappeared to at various times, but they didn't appear to be too affected by any of it. In fact the radiotherapy room was "so cool" they wanted to take all their friends to see the lasers!
I don't mean to make light of the subject or to give the impression that the experience was a bed of roses. There were times when I felt sick and distressed, and times when they tip-toed around me, but I feel confident that we handled a very tricky situation well.
Admittedly my children were only six and eight at the time and too young to comprehend the seriousness of the situation, but nothing is to be gained and a lot of harm is to be risked if you keep loved ones in the dark.
Recently a young friend of mine was telling me how devastated she had felt when she discovered at 21 that her father had had cancer when she was a teenager and no-one had told her. She knew her father was sick and had been in hospital at times, but was gently reassured that everything was OK and that she was not to worry. Her father did make a full recovery and is now super fit, but she is left with so much hurt that he didn't include her in his situation. She felt he showed her no respect because as she said, "Everyone else knew, but me!"
I know that her parents would have made this decision with her best interest at heart, but it certainly has had a long term effect on this woman, who tells me she can no longer trust her parents.
Now that my family and I have confronted cancer, the word "cancer" no longer has any hold over us. When there is an item on radio or TV about breast cancer, my kids race in saying, "Quick Mum. There's a story on breast cancer!", knowing that I will be interested. I realise though that that is still not the case with the general population, however. Sometimes when I use the word in a passing comment, especially to people I do not know so well, I can see the fear and shock in their eyes. The old statement "Cancer is a word, not a sentence" is still not accepted.
I would urge all people touched by cancer to come out, talk more honestly and openly about their cancer, share it with others, diffuse the voodoo.
Mum's Breast Cancer
By James Swinburne, aged 10
When I was six in grade one, my mum found out that she had breast cancer. I can't remember when she told me about the cancer but I can remember my dad taking my sister Eliza and I each day to visit Mum in the Freemasons Hospital.
I can also remember Mum's room. There were lots and lots of bunches of flowers. Someone gave my mum a soft toy gorilla with boxing gloves and we named it Arthur. I used to play with it when I went to visit Mum. Sometimes the nurses let us go for a walk with Mum in the park across the road from the hospital.
One day Mum took us to have a look at where she got the chemo. There was a ring of blue chairs and a TV with a big screen. Later on Mum had to have radiotherapy every day while Eliza and I were at school.
One day in the holidays Mum took us with her to radiotherapy, Eliza and I both took a friend, and then we went on to a movie in the city. The radiotherapy was bizarre. It had laser beams shooting all over the room. There was a bed in the middle of the room. And we were allowed to move the bed up and down with a remote-control. When it was time for the therapy to start we all had to go out of the room except Mum who was lying on the bed under a big machine. The red light went on for about a minute. We could see her on a TV screen. When the red light went off Mum waved to us and we all laughed.
Sometimes when Eliza and I got back from school Mum was in bed because she was sick from the chemo. Sometimes Nan would come and look after us. Dad had to do more things for us because of Mum's sickness.
I can't remember a lot of things that happened in 1993 because I was too young. I wasn't scared because I didn't know much about cancer affecting you. Now mum spends a lot of time helping other ladies with breast cancer. We have lots of meetings at our house and the phone is always ringing but it doesn't worry me.
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Lyn Swinburne 
